


Three Weeks

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-19
Updated: 2006-10-19
Packaged: 2018-09-03 20:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8729116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: This is a direct follow up to the last J2 I posted, "four months," and wont make any sense really without reading that first. Jensen pov that spins off from about a third of the way into four months, and yes, the line in four months is "four months, three weeks and two days."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title - three weeks  
Pairing - JA/JP  
Rating - R  
  
  
  
  
  
  
_**three weeks**_  
  
  
  
Jensen flies to LA Friday night after shooting ends. There’s nothing happening in LA over the weekend - no real reason for him to go - but there’s nothing going on in Vancouver either, and at least in LA there’s no chance of running into Jared.   
  
He calls Steve when the plane touches ground. It’s close to midnight and Steve picks up after the first ring, sounding half-sober and slightly alert.   
  
“You here?” Steve asks.   
  
Jensen nods and stands up. He smiles at the girl sitting next to him before moving out to grab his bag from the overhead. “Yep,” he says into the phone.   
  
Steve rattles off an address and Jensen commits it to memory. One of the older bars in the city. A real dive, if Jensen remembers right. Something perfect for his mood tonight. “I’ll be there in an hour,” he says. Steve grunts something back and the phone goes dead.   
  
It’s a Friday, close to midnight, and Jensen left Jared standing by his car in Vancouver hours ago. Jensen walks down the aisle of the plane, and tells himself he’s crazy when he thinks he can still feel Jared’s eyes on him.   
  
*  
  
The bar is dark and smells like stale perfume and old beer. The tables are lopsided and pushed too close together. Jensen hangs out in the back and watches Steve finish his set on the tiny stage. The lights beat down, making his hair glow a dark gold.   
  
Jensen finishes his beer and orders shots. By the time the bartender has fresh drinks waiting, Steve is standing next to him, his body burning hot where their arms touch. Jensen raises his shot glass and waits for Steve to tap his to Jensen’s.  
  
“Good set, man.” Southern Comfort slides down Jensen’s throat, sticky and sweet. He bangs the glass three times on the bar. “The bottle is fine,” he says when the bartender walks back over. She takes Jensen’s credit card with a smile.   
  
Steve is quiet for a minute, which is never a good sign. Someone loads a bunch of Pearl Jam songs onto the jukebox, and Jensen taps his foot and hums along as Steve clears his throat.   
  
“Hiding out again?” Steve asks.   
  
Jensen never told him anything that happened, but Steve seems to know it all anyway. Sometimes Steve can be damn annoying with his Zen master, “I know all, see all, am all,” bullshit. Especially when he’s right.   
  
Jensen laughs once. It sounds hard and ripped open, kind of like he feels. He swirls the drink in his glass and doesn’t look Steve in the eye when he says, “Maybe.”  
  
It’s just after two on a Saturday morning. The bar is emptying around them, and Jensen tries not to look up too much because every time he does, he swears he can see Jared’s face.   
  
*  
  
Jensen’s apartment in LA is so neat it’s almost sterile. His cleaning service is in it more than he is, and when he drops his bag on the floor next to the couch, he has to make a conscious effort to leave it there, reminding himself that it’s _his_ apartment, for fucks sake, and he can leave things as messy as he wants to.   
  
Jensen doesn’t look at the couch as he passes into the kitchen. He tries not to look at couches at all anymore, which is a lot harder than you would think.   
  
He grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator and passes through the hall, carefully not looking into the living room.   
  
(The living room which is just like Jared’s, with the couch in front of the coffee table in front of the TV. They’re set up almost exactly the same, and if Jensen closes his eyes he can see Jared’s couch instead of his. Can see black leather instead of beige suede. He can see Jared leaning back, one foot on the floor, just like he was that night. His cheeks flushed warm and pink, mouth open, and his voice, so low and broken, “ _Yeah, Jensen, yeah. Just like that--_ ”)  
  
Jensen doesn’t think about that though, because he doesn’t look into the living room, doesn’t see the couch. He doesn’t think about Jared and how he looked that night, breathless and fucked open, his eyes blinking huge and wide. Jensen doesn’t think about it because he doesn’t remember it - it never (should have) happened. Jensen doesn’t do things like that anymore. Not with guys, not with co-stars. He just doesn’t.   
  
He doesn’t think of how Jared looked and sounded and felt. He doesn’t think about how _he_ felt, hearing Jared’s voice sound like that for him. Jensen doesn’t think about the weight of Jared’s cock in his mouth, over his lips, down his throat. Jared’s fingers curling tight into Jensen’s shoulders, pulling him up, pushing him down. Jared twisted and writhing on the couch, his body strung out and quivering under Jensen’s hands, being the best and worst thing that had ever happened to Jensen ever, in his life, hands down.   
  
It’s almost four AM on a Saturday, and Jensen is tired. He stumbles to bed and closes his eyes, and a few minutes later, when he’s jerking off, desperate and angry, Jensen tells himself that it’s not Jared’s hand he’s thinking of. Not Jared’s mouth or teeth or lips. It’s not Jared he wants; anyone but Jared, definitely not Jared.   
  
Jensen falls asleep and tries to pretend he’s not lying.   
  
*  
Jensen stays in all day on Saturday. He sleeps late, showers, dresses in sweat pants and a t-shirt and eyeballs the couch from every corner of the apartment.   
  
By lunchtime he's had it with himself.   
  
"This is stupid." Jensen tosses the paper on the coffee table and sits down on the couch hard, with a purpose, with intent. Still muttering, he says, "It's a goddamn couch. Quit being a pussy," then looks around, as if double-checking to make sure there's no one hiding in the bathroom listening to him.   
  
Jensen leans his head back and sighs. His life never used to be this crazy. Yet another thing he could probably blame on Jared if he wanted to.   
  
But even as he thinks it, Jensen knows he's not being fair. It wasn't just Jared in Jared's apartment that night, it was the both of them. Hell, if Jensen were _really_ being honest with himself, he would admit that Jared wasn't even the one who started everything - not really.   
  
_Yeah, but you knew he wanted to_ , something in Jensen's head tells him. _You only did it because--_  
  
Jensen stops himself there. It's almost three in the afternoon on Saturday, and Jensen's tired of lying.   
  
*  
  
Steve comes over around ten that night.   
  
"Hey, I thought you had a gig--"  
  
"Here's the thing," Steve says, cutting Jensen off and pushing past him and into the apartment. Jensen closes the door and leans back against it. He lifts his chin and sets his jaw. Jensen has a feeling that whatever Steve says, he's not going to like.   
  
All Steve does, though, is shake his head and walk over to the coffee table. He picks up Jensen's phone and turns it over in his hand, before passing it to Jensen with a smile.   
  
"You can fix this," is what Steve says.   
  
Jensen knows he can. He knows he has to. He's been so mad for so long about everything. At Jared, at himself. He and Jared had something good, something you don't see every day, and in the span of one drunken night on the couch, Jensen ruined that, plus anything else they maybe could have been.   
  
Jensen thinks that that's where he fucked up the most. Because Jared is Jared, and Jensen knows Jared will forgive him for some of this, but maybe not all. Maybe not everything. Jensen was so mad at himself for possibly screwing up their friendship with sex that he never stopped to think about talking to Jared, seeing what he was thinking. Jensen just assumed he knew everything - like usual - and fucked it all to hell. Again, like usual.   
  
Steve clears his throat and Jensen realizes just how far he's drifted off. More important than that, though, he realizes what he needs to do.   
  
He looks up at Steve, and before he can even say anything, Steve smiles wide and says, "Get your shit. I'll drive you to the airport."  
  
*  
  
There hadn't been a flight from LA to Vancouver for a few hours, and then Jensen had to wait for a car to come pick him up after he landed. It's early morning now, the sky lifting from heavy grey to a dull pinkish blue, and Jensen leans against the door, watching the streets roll past the window.   
  
He tells the driver Jared’s address, closes his eyes, and waits. It’s seven AM on Sunday morning, and Jensen has no idea if he’s too late to fix this.   
  
  
-end-


End file.
